


I used to fancy myself a scholar

by thraenthraen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Books, F/F, Flourish and Blotts, LGBTQ Female Character, Lesbian Character, Lesbian Pansy Parkinson, Literature, No Lesbians Die, POV Lesbian Character, POV Pansy Parkinson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:28:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27382690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thraenthraen/pseuds/thraenthraen
Summary: Pansy Parkinson was here to buy some books. She was definitely not hoping to see some overly friendly, Dumbledore's Wankers-type Hufflepuff smiling at her and offering up her opinions on books. That would be absurd.Election stress is stressful, so, as promised, here's a light, fluffy one-off.
Relationships: Pansy Parkinson/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	I used to fancy myself a scholar

**Author's Note:**

> Rating is only Teen for (a whole lot of) swearing.

Pansy was out of books to read, as usual. She’d even made an effort last week to buy extra books to last a bit longer, but here she was again, walking into Flourish and Blotts and telling herself she was definitely just here for the books and not the confusing ever-cheerful, overly friendly girl who worked there. 

She definitely did _not_ enjoy some bubbly girl who had been part of Dumbledore’s Wankers smiling at her and taking interest in the one thing Pansy actually enjoyed: books. For one, the girl was clearly from some sort of working-class, muggle background, even if she inexplicably knew Latin and could recognise Victor Hugo quotes without Pansy even translating them from French. Not Pansy’s sort at all. More importantly, Pansy didn’t like talking about what books she read. That was private. She read to _avoid_ talking to people, not so she could be bombarded with some bookshop girl’s toothy grin—thin lips, slightly crooked teeth—and juvenille opinions on literature.

Pansy was one hundred percent here to grab some books and leave, hopefully with minimal interaction with anyone. People were exhausting.

The old wizard was at the register once again. Good. She ignored the disappointment that nagged at the back of her mind and wandered the shelves. She was in the mood for something easy—cheap romance or some hastily published mystery, the gaping plot holes a bigger mystery than the real plot. 

“From Madeline Verne to, er, is that Marvin Morgue? That’s an impressive range, Parkinson.” Pansy looked up. Peeking out from behind a teetering stack of books was Hughes, the girl Pansy was definitely not here to see. Merlin, it was like looking into the fucking sun. Was she ever not smiling?

“It’s for my brother,” Pansy lied. Her brother? Merlin, what an awful lie. Hughes surely saw right through it.

“It’s fine if that’s what he likes, but just so you know, Morgue is a terrible writer.” The stack of books slowly lowered themselves to the ground. “That’s the sort of thing you read if you don’t really want to be bothered to read.” 

Pansy couldn’t catch her laugh in time, and Hughes practically beamed. 

“Totally fine, of course,” Hughes continued, “if that’s what you’re looking for.” Merlin, was she _teasing_ Pansy? As if they were friends? 

“Not all of us read Latin,” Pansy countered. Was Pansy teasing back? Ugh. Stop. This was a bad idea. The blinding sunlight only worsened.

“I wouldn’t be too impressed. Latin is dull and dead. Anyway, if you’re looking for that sort of thing, Isolde Donnet’s novels are the literary equivalent of just eating a few scoops of raw sugar.” Hughes stepped around the tower of books and into what was definitely Pansy’s bubble. She reached across Pansy, pulled out a book and handed it to her. _The Case of the Grindylows of High Castle_. It looked truly terrible. “That one is probably my favourite of hers. Absolute rubbish.” She knew. She absolutely knew Pansy was lying, and she was just humouring her anyway.

“And what would you recommend if I wasn’t looking for rubbish?” Stop, no, don’t ask that, Pansy tried to tell herself. She was _not_ soliciting book recommendations from this girl. Absolutely not.

“Mystery?”

“Sure.” Pansy was absolutely soliciting book recommendations.

Hughes looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, as if having a quick internal debate. “You have several options,” she said finally, “but I imagine you’ve never even heard of Christie, have you?” 

Pansy frowned. 

Hughes slipped past her, stood on her toes, staring at the top shelf. She touched one book, paused, changed her mind, and repeated the indecision several times before finally grabbing one and holding it out to Pansy. _The Murder at the Vicarage_ by Agatha Christie. “Bit of a cultural barrier, but she’s worth it, I promise.” 

“Cultural barrier?” Agatha Christie sounded pretty damn English. “Where’s she from?”

“England.” 

Pansy raised an eyebrow. 

“Muggle. Christie is easily one of the greatest writers of all time though, wizard or otherwise, and I’m saying that as someone who isn’t even particularly into mystery. If your, er, _brother_ likes mystery, she’s the best there is.” 

“So what are you into then? Cicero? Vergil? Stuffy dead men?”

“Bit more into women, actually. Sappho, for example, if we’re talking classics.” Her eyes twinkled conspiratorially. Merlin’s pants, was she really _coming out_ to Pansy with a reference to fucking _Sappho_? How fucking juvenile. “Have you read any of her work?” Fuck. She knew. Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

“Never learned Latin.” 

“She’s Greek, actually.” 

“I suppose you’ll just teach me Ancient Greek then?” 

“I’m not that cruel, Parkinson. I only learned because I used to fancy myself a _scholar_ —” she said the word like it was a hilarious joke “—but any of the classics worth reading have been translated into English by now. Or French, if you’d prefer.”

“You know, you never actually answered my question. Or are you really that pretentious that you only read classics?”

“Maybe I like pretentious.” Was she flirting with Pansy? Merlin’s pants, her cheeks were pink, and her eyes definitely flicked down Pansy’s body for a moment. Why the fuck was she flirting with Pansy? And worse, why was it _working_? 

“I have to, er...” Pansy tried to come up with a good excuse, an exit strategy, and came up with nothing. “Go. I have a thing.” She really did not want to go, which was exactly why she needed to. 

“Yeah,” Hughes said, a little overly enthusiastic, masking disappointment. “Of course. I need to finish putting these back anyway.” She waved her wand, and the stack of books she’d been carrying floated back up. “Let me know what your, er, brother thinks of the books.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“See you around, Parkinson.” Hughes brushed Pansy lightly as she went, sending a very much unwelcome fluttering sensation through Pansy’s body. Pansy was sure she’d done it intentionally.

**Author's Note:**

> This is teeeechnically a somewhat edited excerpt from a Pansy/Rhianna fic I drafted a bit of. Do I write and edit the rest and post the whole story?


End file.
